


completionist

by dissembler



Category: Frankenstein - Mary Shelley
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Anatomy, Gross Anatomical Language, Hand Jobs, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:53:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27308752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dissembler/pseuds/dissembler
Summary: One must manipulate to test, this is physiology.
Relationships: Victor Frankenstein/Frankenstein's Creature
Comments: 6
Kudos: 46
Collections: Corsets & Lemons 2019 round - 1800 literature





	completionist

Such is the agony of his nerves, such is the sharp, pained tension in his senses, that despite the rain against the window, and the pulsing of blood in the veins and arteries of his own ears, he would swear that even before that horrid eye opens he can hear his creation’s heart begin to beat. 

He rushes to his feet as what had only moments before been mere slabs of muscle, devoid of the spark of life, stirs. A judder of these massive limbs throws an arm towards him, which he catches, feeling for the pulse at the wrist and wrestling out his pocket watch to count out a steady rhythm to match the loud beat. He had found, in dissections, no discernable difference between the size of the hearts of those above average height and those of average or indeed stunted height and thus the loudness of it comes, he supposes, from the cavernous quality of the chest – the cage of ribs had come from a man well over six foot in height, the same man who supplied several of the limbs. He leans over the creature, presses his ear to the stretched smooth skin, and hears none of the anomalies that would suggest disease or mistake; the heart in the creature is as healthy as it was in its previous owner, and situated just as well within the systems of circulation.

Next he traverses the broad breast and listens to the lungs, feeling beneath him the steady expansion and contraction of the breaths. He cannot hear any rattle in them, nor a hiss or whistle: they were disease-free when he had found them, searching for the healthiest criminals among the far greater number of malnourished and pox-ridden wretches who went to the noose, and his processes of preservation are held up in their remaining so.

Content that the signs of the upper body correspond to what he would expect, Victor passes his hand down below the waist, pressing in the triangle of hip, thigh and groin for the femoral pulse. The skin stretched over the jut of the hip bone and down to this unspeakable place is smooth, by necessity for the connection of the pieces, and underneath the skin for the channelling of the fibres, tendons, and ligaments around this the instrument of natural life. This place had taken nearly a month of work, poring over books the diagrams in which were most unwholesome, even to an anatomist. 

Another spasm of life comes over his creation and Victor finds that under his hand is no more the cool, average dermis of the pubic region replaced by the heated, silky skin of the phallus itself. The body jerks again, the organ stiffening beneath his fingers and Victor’ cannot look away from it. It is less yellow and therefore looks more alive than the rest of the skin but nonetheless it is monstrous for the sheer size of it as it tumesces, the contrast of it and Victor’s delicate, fine-boned hand. Even flaccid the piece had been above the average, of the males he had seen whilst at his filthy procurement in the charnel houses and the dens of the resurrection men. He had taken it from yet another criminal of almost gigantic stature, having followed the man from detention, whereupon he had made his initial visit and, in the guise of the usual medical student wishing for experience, inspected the man for disease, to trial and thence to the gallows. At this last, the supposed final appointment for this wretch in life, Victor had watched in reviled fascination as the prick of the man had engorged and risen when his neck had broken, and, seeing the resulting priapism, he had resolved to take this corpse at earliest opportunity for his employment.

His face flushes, both to be reminded of such calculation, of the haggling with base men that he had been forced to do for this end, this culmination, and at the thought of the position in which he has found himself: bent over a thing he had thought to be beautiful, a being who has both really and in dreams wasted his days and nights, a thing with the form and pieces of a man that he touches so liberally. 

Attempting to free himself of these thoughts, Victor takes up again the doctor’s examination and moves to take the same pulse at the other side. But, as the unholy organ brushes the undersides of his wrists, he can feel it twitch, engorged and throbbing as he counts, the corpora cavernosa filled with blood, and his hand falls to it. 

Thus far, the actions of the thing give him grim satisfaction, recollecting as he does the toil of the connexions required to be wrought with the smallest tubes and vesicles; the delicacy of the work on the most profane flesh. He had not envisioned himself testing the full workings of this organ but, with the opportunity so literally at hand he feels he can scarcely forgo it.

He glances at the creature’s face, the eyes closed since that first vital opening, but the lips – black with a sort of vile remnant of post-mortem lividity that he had not thought to amend – twist as Victor shifts his grip on the phallus. The prepuce has begun to retract and the glans beneath mark the healthiest looking skin yet, truly pink and alive and like a rod the organ is solid, hot and heavy in his hand. Though Victor has not held the members of many men, at least when those men are living, he has, in moments, first of exploration and discovery, then of weakness, held his own and this feels like enough that he can satisfy himself that the heat is not too hot, the colour not dangerous, the bounding pulse of the deep dorsal vein to be expected given the circumstances. 

One manipulates to test, this is a fundamental tenet of physiology, of science in general; he must ignore the heat in his own flesh, the rising flush in his cheeks, the stirring within his breeches. It must be the scientist, not the sodomite, that draws down further the prepuce and begins to stroke. The creature shifts and jerks, its eyes screwing ever more tightly shut as he trembles under Victor’s ministrations. 

Victor moves briskly, his goal is the final action of spilling and not the pleasure of the body on the table. His hand passes from radix to glans, tight around the shaft, over and over and he watches as the ballocks tighten up towards the body. He does not allow himself to slow, to focus on what his creation is feeling but does wonder, his own face heating as he does so, whether he should, to test sensation as well as mechanic. On the next sweep up he varies, he twists his wrist, his fingertips brushing the frenulum praeputii, a part found to be particularly sensitive on his own person, and the creature undergoes a colossal quake, summoning forth a low inarticulate sound like a groan.

He does not have time to focus on the apparently good working order of the vocal cords, for the creature now thrusts several times violently up into his hand, the surprize of which makes his grip tighten, his fingers pressing down again upon that band of tissue, and with another low shout, the being spills his stuff over Victor’s hand. 

The cataclysmic nature of what has passed now hits Victor, sending him staggering back as the creature’s frame heaves in the wake of its release. Victor looks properly upon the thing that he has created, looks upon it as a whole rather than regions and functions to test and catalogue; it is monstrous. The sickly yellow of its skin, stretched horrendously between juts of elongated bone, the hellish stature of it. He had sought to grant, along with the glory of life at all, the glory of beauty, but though the creature’s dark hair is lambent as an exotic woman’s and his teeth as he bears them now in grimace are clean and white, the unholy blurring of familiar and wrong in its body is repulsive. What hubris was that thought? And what punishment is this? That the thing he has formed is a demon, that _he_ has given it life and the means to propagate itself, has tested that very thing!

The eyes flicker open, the frame begins to shift and the fiend drags itself up to sitting. It towers over him, lit from the moonlight like some spectre from the grave. It opens its mouth, utters yet more garbled sounds in a voice so deep it must be the devil’s. It means to stand, it means to come at him, its maker, its _pleasurer_. It reaches with hideous long arms, grasping spidery fingers, to take and hold.

He flees, his hand still soiled by the creature’s vile spendings that ought to burn like acid, ought to match the terrible aspect of the rest of him. He flees like a criminal from the scene, like a wretched, shameful degenerate from a sordid house of assignation, and he does not stop until that narrow attic is far behind him. The tainted hand he scratches almost raw to purge the corruption.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Corsets and Lemons prompt: The moment the creatures gets to life victor realizes that he made good choices in finding the pieces to build him. 
> 
> And between the disgust and the curiosity, curiosity won"
> 
> CONTENT NOTES: The creature can't really be said to be consenting but he isn't protesting, either.


End file.
